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T I realized I was about to die arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I stated, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing whatever comes, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was protected from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed the way I approach different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to grow older.